


31 Weeks

by 221Bme



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Шерлок Холмс | Sherlock Holmes (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bme/pseuds/221Bme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>31 weeks ago John noticed something wasn't quite right with Sherlock. He'd never eaten during cases before, but is this any different...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_31 weeks._

Roughly seven months ago.

That's how long ago John had become aware of _the thing_  about Sherlock that was just...  _Off._ Something wasn't right, something that John sensed but couldn't quite put his finger on. And of course, Sherlock wasn't going to let on that he knew that John knew, or let him know what was wrong.

Maybe it was just the stress of work getting to his head, John thought. That's probably what it was.

...

_24 weeks._

Five and a quarter months since the realization, and no, it was not just the stress of things. Something was wrong. Maybe Sherlock was sick. Maybe he'd taken up drugs again...? God, John hoped he hadn't.

...

_12 weeks._

Not sick. Not drugs. But not well. Then what?

...

_7 weeks._

One month and 3 weeks ago. Had it only been that long...? Had it really taken  _that_   _long_  for John to see what was going on…? Sherlock wasn't the same man he'd met back when John had returned to civilian life. He wasn't the same old consulting detective he knew so well… But why had it taken so long for him to see it?  _Why?_

Maybe if he'd seen it earlier he could have stepped in and stopped it from going this far. From getting this bad. But then again, Sherlock never listened to him anyway. John didn't know how on earth he was going to do it, but he had to get him to talk about it sooner or later. Somehow.

...

_Sunday, December 8_ _th_ _._

_The present._

_Sherlock was starving._

John no longer doubted this fact, seated across from him in the living room as the detective languished on the sofa in his dressing gown and pyjamas.

The heat was on in the flat, but Sherlock was still curled in on himself for warmth, and John noticed. He noticed a lot of things recently.

He noticed, for instance, the way the silk shirt hung on Sherlock's meagre frame, emphasizing just how thin he'd become. The way his spine rose in little ridges at the nape of his neck, and the gauntness in his face. It made John sick to his stomach.

But it made him even sicker to think that what he saw now could have been prevented, if only he'd noticed earlier. 31 weeks earlier.

Seven weeks ago he'd begun keeping track of Sherlock's habits and behaviour patterns concerning food, or the lack thereof. What he'd found was confusing and worrying to him as a doctor, and as Sherlock's friend.

He'd found that, as usual, Sherlock avoided eating during cases. Then he'd also found that at times he avoided it even if there was no case. Then it was all the time. He would become tetchy and snappish if John even mentioned pushing him to eat, citing all sorts of reasons why not to— _too tired, too busy, not feeling well_ —none of which John found remotely believable. Tea was the one thing there didn't seem to be any limit on, and Sherlock took full advantage of that.

But of course, a body can't subsist on just tea and oxygen for very long without beginning to show the effects.

It was after John had found him sprawled on the hall floor where he'd fallen, having blacked out, that the doctor decided he wasn't going to take no for an answer anymore. That didn't mean Sherlock was going to stop refusing, either, but something had to be done.

That hadn't ended pleasantly. Sherlock hadn't spoken to him for several days, and John felt horrible for what he'd had to do—the look in Sherlock's eyes had showed pure betrayal and fury—but John had just been scared.

He'd been scared because it looked like Sherlock was dying.  _And he was doing it on purpose._

Whether or not that was the actual intent, John wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that he could not let that happen. Not to his consulting detective.

Over the last few weeks John had been forming an idea in his head, a picture of what exactly this  _thing_  was that had such a tight grip on Sherlock, and the conclusion he kept coming up with made his chest ache and his head spin.

_Sherlock was starving. On purpose._

_Sherlock Holmes had an…_

"Eating disorder." John's voice felt much too loud and much too harsh in the sweltering silence of the living room, and he regretted them the moment the words left his lips. It was the first time he'd spoken to him for two days, and the phrase had been tumbling around inside his skull for much longer than that. He'd just had to say it.

And it was probably the worst thing he could have said.

Sherlock didn't respond, but John imagined he could see the jaw tighten, the fists clench. Maybe he hadn't expected a response anyway. Maybe he just needed Sherlock to know beyond a doubt that his flatmate was absolutely aware of what was going on, that he wasn't fooling anyone for even a second.

Not anymore, at least. He'd had everyone in the dark for a very, very long time, before.

Even John, his so-called best friend.

 _Why didn't you come to me…?_  John rubbed his burning eyes with the heels of his hands, but it didn't help. Nothing helped anymore. Nothing short of a miracle.

And John's little outburst had been nothing if not the exact opposite of a miracle.

"That's just… I think…" He continued to readjust his hand against his lips and cheek in a vain attempt to find the correct position to rest it in, but it became little more than a nervous tic as he searched for more words. Finally he put his face in his palm and shut his eyes, brows furrowing. "I'm sorry."

 _What was he apologizing for…?_  For forcing Sherlock to eat? For forcing him to keep living? No, he had to stop thinking like that. He understood the causes of most eating disorders enough to know that it wasn't a suicide attempt. Not strictly.

Then again, most documented cases seemed to be in young girls who didn't eat because they thought they were fat and ugly.

And that wasn't Sherlock at all, not by a long shot, not even close. He had much too high of an opinion of himself for that.

But if that wasn't it, then… what was it? What had driven him to refuse his body all nutrients, spare the occasional milk in his tea or saltine once in a while? What was it that had reduced him to a mere nine stone (John was estimating) in just 31 weeks?

That  _thing_  was a mystery. Perhaps if John had possessed Sherlock's uncanny deduction skills he might have been able to figure it out, but as things stood he was at a complete loss. And it was absolutely devastating.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

Sherlock was supposed to be an arrogant, conceited show-off who didn't give a damn what people thought and didn't quite grasp the idea of manners—but this was not him. This was a Sherlock who had given in to  _something_ , something that might or might not have already been there when John met him years ago.

It really did feel as though something of Sherlock had been taken from him, but at the same time this  _was_  Sherlock, consciously making decisions that would wreak havoc on his own body, and on John's mind and heart.

Didn't Sherlock realize that? Didn't he care that he was doing this? What he was putting him through?

In the back of his mind he was aware that he was blaming Sherlock. That was something he didn't want to do, because he knew his friend couldn't help it—but he also knew that there was something Sherlock could have done. He could have come to John and told him, asked for help, vented,  _anythin_ g—but no.

No.

Instead, he'd decided to keep it a complete secret and put himself and John through this hell.

This 31 weeks of hell.


	2. I'm okay

_Sherlock, eat._

_Please eat._

_It can't be that hard, can it?_

_You're wasting away, just skin and bones._

_I can't take much more of this._

_You can't take much more of this._

_Please._

_Please eat._

_..._

Sherlock had always been thin. He'd always been pale. Maybe he'd always looked a bit ill, too.

Or maybe John was just too used to it all to remember otherwise.

"So it's really quite obvious, if you'd paid any attention at all, that this was an inside job. Someone the victim knew personally. Talk to her sister again." Sherlock was pulling his gloves back on emphatically as Lestrade nodded and turned to bark orders to Anderson.

John noticed the sudden constriction of Sherlock's pupils, the hard line of his mouth, the way he stopped moving, as if focussing on nothing but consciousness.

He put a hand on the detective's arm. "Sherlock. Are you okay?"

When no answer came he tightened his grip on his arm and looked up at him.

Damn.

Not here.

"Let's go." He didn't wait for a reply and tugged Sherlock toward the sidewalk and led him away down an empty street. He took his pulse inconspicuously as he did so, and was displeased to find it was quick and jumpy.

"Can you look at me? Sherlock. Focus. Deep breath. Don't you pass out on me."

Of course Lestrade had noticed what was happening the last few months.

Everyone had noticed.

They would have to be blind not to.

But they pretended they didn't, for whatever reason, be it trying to preserve his pride, or simply not knowing what on earth to say. John didn't blame them.

Except he did, because his best friend was killing himself slowly and no one could do a damn thing about it.

Sherlock was looking at him, he realized, and he quickly took his pulse again. Better, but still fast.

"Talk to me." His military doctor attitude had kicked in, and he issued commands, not requests. "I need to know you're alert."

"...and say what, exactly? I'm not a trick pony."

"Don't. I'm not playing." John didn't bother to hide the deep scowl that crossed his face, and turned Sherlock's head so he could examine his pupils.

"Oh come on, lighten up." Sherlock blinked and pushed his hands away. "I solved the case. One and a half days. There's a real record you can put on your little blog."

"No, I'm not going to lighten up! Are we going to talk about this or what?" John had crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his teeth stubbornly.

A veil immediately fell over Sherlock's countenance, like a door closing and locking tightly. "What is there to talk about?"

"Don't give me that bullshit! You almost passed out at the scene of a murder just now! That's not nothing!"

"But I didn't, so it's fine."

John's mouth almost fell open, and he bit his tongue to stifle the harsh words that threatened to jump out of his throat and smack the detective in the face with cold reality. "Sherlock, _no_ , it is not 'fine!' It's not anywhere close to fine! Not even a little bit! Look, I just-I just want you to be okay, yeah?"

Sherlock frowned. "I am okay."

This was getting too difficult to stifle.

"You're-no, this is-I mean-really? Really? Because from what I just saw, you're far from okay. That's not normal, what just happened. I think you know that. People aren't supposed to just black out randomly like that."

"And I'm not 'people.'" Sherlock shrugged his coat up on his shoulders with finality. "I'm not talking about this."

"You can't just ignore it forever!"

"I can, because there's nothing to ignore."

John's shoulders slumped. He was talking to a brick wall. A rock. Just as helpful as shouting at a piece of wood.

But much, much more infuriating.

He sighed. "Look... Will you at least come with me to get a cup of tea?"  _Food would be more like it._  "That might help steady you a little."  _No it wouldn't. Hot water and tannin wasn't what Sherlock needed so desperately._

But it would have to do.


	3. Transport

The  _clunk_  on the tabletop made Sherlock look up from his paper. He glanced at the bowl of soup in front of him and then up at John, who was standing over him pointedly.

"Is there something I can help you with?" His tone was as sharp as his cheekbones.

"Yeah, you can help me by helping yourself." John set a spoon next to the bowl, pulling out a chair and taking a seat across from him. "And you can start by eating this."

Sherlock made a sound of disgust and hid behind his paper again.

"I'm not kidding." John leaned over the table and pulled the paper down so he could see the detective's face. "I'm dead serious. I don't want a repeat of last week, but one way or another you're going to eat this."

"I'm on a case." He attempted to work the paper out from under John's hands, before finally succeeding in ripping it free.

"You solved it this morning."

"It still counts."

John sighed and leaned his elbows on the table. _The stubborn git.._ _._

"Sherlock, look at me. I want you to be okay. I've said that before. I'm a doctor, I understand the human body. And I know that this-" He nodded at the bowl. "-is the only way we can ensure that you will be alright."

There was a flicker of something behind Sherlock's eyes as he realised John would not be swayed this time.

It looked like fear.

But Sherlock didn't get scared. Not about silly things like a bowl of soup.

"You're not trying to 'make sure I'm alright.'" Sherlock lay the paper on the table decisively and glared at him.

_Oh?_

"What do you mean? That's  _all_  I'm trying to do-you're my best friend! Of course I am!"

"No." He hissed. "No, you're not. You're trying to make me slow and heavy so I can't focus on the important things like _work_."

John just sat there for a few seconds. "I... Sherlock-what? I'm not-I mean-seriously? When was the last time you ate  _anything?_  You can't logically think that I could... That's completely irrational. I'm just trying to help you. Honestly. I promise."

"Don't talk to me about irrational!" He pushed his chair back, getting up and going for his coat. "I didn't ask for your help and I don't need it. I'm going to look for a new case."

Another case would only be another excuse not to eat.

John got to his feet quickly. "But, Sherlock-"

"Transport, John. Transport." He shrugged on his coat and fixed the collar.

This was getting ridiculous.

"I'll call someone!"

This made Sherlock pause and turn his eyes back to him slowly. "Who would you possibly call?"

"I..."  _He probably should have planned a little farther ahead._  "Someone to help you."

"Oh please." Sherlock rolled his eyes, sensing the uncertainty. "You wouldn't do that. It isn't necessary. I wouldn't do it anyway."

_Not much to work with there._

"Well I'm bloody well not going to just stand here and watch you wither away!"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not withering! I'm on _fire!_ " He shot him one of his self-assured half-smiles and continued on out the door.

Only today it wasn't as reassuring as it used to be.

John stood in the doorway and watched him go, mentally kicking himself for having failed yet again to make him see-to somehow get him to open his damn eyes and accept a bit of help.

Sherlock was always stubborn.

But this was something else.


	4. You owe me one

"Put them away."

"No."

"You never help out around here, and it's about time you did. This is an easy way to start. Just put the damn groceries away, Sherlock."

"You never said please."

John sighed impatiently. Skinny was playing hardball, it seemed. "Fine.  _Please_  put them away."

"Nope."

"Jesus..." John nearly threw up his hands in frustration, and shot a hard look at the detective in the armchair. "I don't have time fore this—I have to shower and leave for work in ten minutes. The chicken's going to thaw out and go bad if you don't do it."

"Don't care. Sounds disgusting anyway."

The truth was John  _did_  have to leave for work, but even if he hadn't been so pressed for time he wanted Sherlock to do this himself. He'd been doing a little research, to try to give him an edge in dealing with Sherlock's...  _Problem,_  and had turned up a few 'tips.' One such tip was to have the person handle food, just to get them more comfortable with it.

This was going on the idea that the person in question had a fear based relationship with food, and although John found it highly unlikely that Sherlock would ever be afraid of something so mundane as a slice of toast or an apple, there was certainly something skewed about the way he viewed it all, and this was as good a jumping off point as any.

Because so far the direct approach had done _shite._

"If you do this, we can say I owe you one, okay?" John paused on the steps up to his room, fingers crossed as he waited for the slumped figure in the armchair to respond.

"Hmm... Not as if you don't already do whatever I ask..."

"That's different.  _Within reason._ And I'm not your butler."

That earned him a chuckle from the gaunt frame, and then Sherlock pushed himself up to his feet, taking a moment there to make sure he was steady. "Fine. You owe me one. Or perhaps two."

John let out a silent sigh of relief.

_Victory._

"Just one, and a thank you. I'll be back down in ten minutes."

He hurried upstairs, running the shower while he shaved to let it warm up, and dressing quickly. He paused at the head of the stairs, curious to see how Sherlock was finding the task, but also hesitant to interrupt him, just in case it really was helping. At last the thought of being late forced him to continue on downstairs, where he grabbed his coat and glanced over at the kitchen.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the kitchen, apparently lost in reading through the nutrition facts on every can, package, and box. He put them away, when he was finished scanning, but it seemed to be taking him ages.

"Sherlock?"

He glanced up, his temporary trance broken by John's voice. "Hmm?"

"Everything alright?"

"Yes, of course it is... Just... You owe me one." Sherlock flashed him a smile and turned his back, going back to reading.

John stood there for a minute, watching the slow progress, before he slipped on his coat and went outside to catch a cab.

This was supposed to have been a helpful, even therapeutic experience. But instead, seeing Sherlock so focussed on something like that was... troubling.

It made John's brow furrow to think that his friend would spend so much time internalizing the data on all that food, memorising all the calorie amounts, when he most likely wasn't going to let a single bite of it pass his lips.

It wasn't reassuring, to say the least.

_But John wasn't giving up that easily._


	5. Tempt him

**_['Tempt him._ **

**_It must hurt to be that hungry._ **

**_So make it easy. He has to cave sometime or another.']_ **

John stared at his laptop screen. Perhaps asking about this on a forum—anonymously of course—hadn't been the best idea.

So far all the suggestions had been either too obvious, or completely irrelevant.

[' ** _Just make him eat._** ']

_Gee, thanks for nothing, jackass._

_If_ only _it was that easy._

John looked up from the screen as he heard the door open, and Sherlock came in from the cold.

He looked sick again.

His long coat now seemed enormous on him, like a duvet draped over a scarecrow's shoulders.

And was he wearing three layers…?

_Really…_

Sherlock didn't bother to remove his coat and went straight to the sofa, letting himself fall onto it and curling up with a soft groan.

"Alright?" John shut the laptop and set it on the table beside him.

"I solved it…"

"The last case? Just now? You didn't call me out." He frowned at the detective's back.

"Wanted to get it over with…"

"I thought you liked cases." He pushed himself up from the armchair, with half a mind to check Sherlock's temperature.

Running about in the freezing cold all day, with no food to keep his energy up, really couldn't be doing him any favours.

"I do, I do… But…" Sherlock rolled over and sighed plaintively. "My  _bones_  hurt."

John pursed his lips and looked back at him.

_Of course they hurt._

_That's what happens when you're so much thinner than you should be._

_You'll bruise easier, too._

_There would be other complications, eventually._

_Why couldn't he see that?_

"Tea?" John's voice was tight; he couldn't control that. Not even if he'd tried.

Sherlock wasn't listening.

He had a hand splayed over his chest, just under the collarbone, keeping it there as if feeling for something.

A heartbeat, maybe.

He'd said once that he'd been 'reliably informed' that he didn't have one.

But now, if he kept this up, that missing heart might stop.

_No…_

"Sherlock." He waited until those eyes flickered back to life and then up to his face, like he'd just remembered John was still in the room. "You're taking vitals. I'm a doctor. Share."

Sherlock lay back on the couch, as tense as one could be when he was so obviously shattered beyond the definition of 'worn out.' He hadn't moved his hand, perhaps finding it to be too much effort.

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"You're  _tired._ "

The detective let out a breath. "Yes, I'm tired. I've just got back from  _solving a double homicide,_  what the hell do you expect?"

"This isn't like you. You're not usually like this after a case. You used to be… well, hyper."

"Don't say that, you make me sound like a gerbil." Sherlock shut his eyes, and John had to focus on watching him breathe just so his mind didn't start pointing out that this must be what he'd look like dead.

Ashen skin, gaunt face, slight as a sparrow…

_…fragile._

_That's what it was._

_That's what was so strange._

Sherlock was supposed to be imposing—tall, with his dark trench coat and piercing gaze, he cut a commanding figure. He issued orders, not questions, and he didn't take shit from anybody. He was always ready with a sharp comeback, and when he wasn't moping about he was bursting with focussed energy. Always ready for something to do, up for a challenge.

And now he was curled on the sofa in three layers and a coat, checking his own resting heart rate and moaning about his aching bones.

_This was so wrong._

"It's fast, isn't it?" John crossed his arms over his chest, looking away and out the window because he didn't want that particular image burned into his mind.

_It was too late for that, of course._

"Mm?"

"Your heart rate. It's jumpy, right?"

_Of course it would be._

_That's a symptom._

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him for a minute, his expression closed.

John wasn't sure if he'd admit it or not—if he did, he'd have to admit that something was wrong. If he didn't, then…

"Yes."

John blinked and looked back around. "It is?"

"Yes… It's from caffeine. I had a cup of coffee earlier."

_Oh…_

_Clever…_

"Right." John swallowed and turned back to the window.

He could see Sherlock's reflection in the glass. He was staring up at the ceiling with that dead gaze, his hand still resting over his heart, still counting beats…

He knew.

He may be in denial, but he knew.

Whether he was keeping time, or counting down—beat by beat, erratic  _thump_  by erratic  _thump—_ John couldn't tell.

Maybe he really was counting down.

Starting at 31.

Because that's when everything started.

_If that was the beginning, what was this?_

_The middle?_

_Not the end…_

_Not yet, at least._

_Not if John could help it._

If it began at 31, right now would be… 21.

He was aware that none of this really made any sense, but he couldn't stop his mind from wandering. Sleep would be a welcome relief, but…

"Sherlock—" He stopped as he turned around and saw that the eyes had closed again, the features at rest, his thin chest rising and falling slowly as he breathed.

_Sherlock had beaten him to it, it seemed._

_Well…_

Rest would help, if nothing else.

_'Tempt him.'_

John paused where he stood, about to pull the Afghan up to Sherlock's chin, just to keep him a little warmer.

Maybe that would be worth a try, however silly it seemed.

Anything would be worth a try.

The real miracle would be if anything actually _worked._

He sighed and draped the blanket over the sleeping figure before him. The hand was still positioned there, as if to reassure himself that it would still continue beating even as he slept.

Not that there was anything he could do about that.

He'd made his choices.


	6. Denial

It turned out to be a lot more difficult than John had anticipated to figure out just what to use in his plan to tempt the detective into eating.

Anything would work though, at this point. Right?

_Toast? Soup? An apple?_

None of them had worked previously, but maybe this time... Maybe by now he'd be hungry enough...

But even though John made sure to leave out conspicuous plates and bowls of various things over the next few days, he always found them again untouched and cold.

The detective's control was incredible. His determination was resolute and unswerving, with an unbelievably inflexible dose of self-restraint.

If only he wasn't applying that control to killing himself like this...

_This couldn't go on. It just couldn't._

_He had to say something._

* * *

"Sherlock. We need to talk about this, and we need to talk about it  _now_."

The detective raised his eyes slightly to look up at him from where he was lounging in his chair, stretched out lazily, like skinny royalty.

He offered no response, and glanced away again.

_That would be a no._

**_Oh well._ **

"You're sick. Okay? Actually sick. I can't stand by and watch this anymore. I  _can't._  If you let yourself get any thinner..."

Sherlock scoffed openly. "Save it. Honestly... You're a doctor. Your perception of ideal health is skewed because you focus on it too much. I'm not sick, and I'm not at all too thin, and you can just... You can just shut up. That would be lovely."

"You're not..." John blinked incredulously, his brow furrowing.

_Not too thin?_

_Really?_

All collarbones and shoulder blades and hipbones and ribcage...  
 _How could that not be too thin?_

Didn't he feel it? Didn't it send up any red flags at all when he bruised easier than he used to, when his heart fluttered and skipped beats, or when black spots appeared in his field of vision when he stood up too fast?

 _Because that's what was happening._  John could tell. Sherlock was right, he was a doctor, and he knew-he knew all about the effects of malnourishment on a human body. He'd seen the detective exhibit them before, when he'd first met him, but only slightly-and nowhere close as worrying as this was now.

_He had to get through to him somehow._

"You  _are_  too thin. You're just skin and bones, and honestly it's... starting to scare me."

Sherlock turned his head to glare at him mistrustfully. "Stop mocking me. I told you to drop it."

" _How the hell am I mocking you?! What the hell do you think I'm trying to do here-?_!"

Without another word Sherlock heaved himself up from his chair and turned his back on him, stalking into the other room in an irritated huff.

He kept his spine ramrod straight and his shoulders squared, defiant-but even with his imposing height, it just came across as sort of... sad.

_A failed attempt at assurance._

_Concrete denial._


	7. A wake-up call?

_It had been over twenty-five minutes since they'd received the call from Lestrade._

Sherlock's expertise was needed on a case—an interesting one, too, by the sound of it. He had seemed excited about it, even giddy; but now, twenty-five minutes later, he still hadn't gotten up from the couch.

"Come  _on!_  I've been ready for ages. I'm just waiting on you, now." John crossed his arms impatiently, but the detective made no move to get up, still lying there on his back, just looking up at the ceiling. "This isn't like you."

Sherlock glanced over at him, moving only his eyes. As John watched him breathe, he realised that something seemed slightly off. The look in his eyes was almost... fearful?

_But..._

"John." He swallowed, taking a deep breath.

"Huh?"

"I... I can't do it. I can't manage to get up. I just... I can't even force myself. I don't have the energy. I can't." His expression was a mixture of alarm, dread, and pure terror.

_Help me._

_I can't do it._

Perfectly understandable that he would panic when he finally found himself simply incapable of carrying on as usual. A wake up call.

Hopefully...

John quickly knelt beside the sofa and laid two fingers against the inside of Sherlock's wrist. "Your pulse is fast. God-dammit, Sherlock... when was the last time you ate  _anything?_ "

Sherlock looked up at him with trepidation, finally realising how hesitant he was to say the truth. "...Six days ago. I thought I could make it until tonight... but..."

" _Six days?_  Oh god..." John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, not letting go of the detective's wrist. "You have a problem. You have to see that. Tell me you can see that. Please."

"I... maybe I just... I mean... Perhaps..."

"I want to take you to a hospital, okay? If you're too weak to get up then you need some care."

" _No!_ " Sherlock turned hostile almost immediately. "I'm not weak, I'm just—I just need to..."

" _Eat something._ "

The detective stared at him quietly, and John could almost see the battle being waged behind his eyes.

_Not weak._

_But in desperate need._

_Have to._

_But don't want to._

_Really, really don't want to._

_Anxiety run rampant._

"It's okay." John found himself taking on his doctor persona, trying to be gentle and persuasive. "Just something small. I promise I won't force it on you like before. But I really need you to eat at least something."

There was silence for another few moments, and Sherlock drew in another deep breath, closing the doors on that battle and putting the mask on again.

_No problem._

"...Fine. ...okay. This time. But only because I have to. Don't start thinking it was because of you, or anything."

_Yes..._

_Finally..._

This was a thousand times better than the last few months had been, even with Sherlock prone on the couch.

But he'd have to be careful. And whether or not this would last...

John would just have to cross his fingers and hope for the best.


	8. Don't play dumb

"You have to admit it, Sherlock." John pushed the steaming cup of tea across the table toward the detective, who accepted it warily, warming his cold hands against the mug. "It's gone on too long."

"Admit what?"

"Don't play dumb with me." John crossed his arms. "It doesn't suit you."

Sherlock hesitated, and was quiet for several moments, taking his time fiddling with the cup's handle before he finally raised it to his lips. He set it back down on the table distractedly, looking anywhere but at him. "…It's not new. It… comes and goes. There are periods where it doesn't bother me at all, and then... there are times when it does."

_A confession...?_

" _It?_  You mean... an eating disorder?"

Sherlock looked up sharply. "I don't like your use of the word 'disorder.' It implies a problem in the brain."

"But Sherlock..."

All this was proving a little much to process so suddenly. Sure, he'd been worrying about it for the last 31 weeks, but to sit across from his best friend and hear it from his own mouth...

_It was different._

"I'm not disordered, I'm just... highly controlled. I always have been. It's a  _good_  thing."

" _You couldn't even get up._ "

Sherlock looked as if he were about to say something, but then shut his mouth again.  _No argument._  "It's been worse. Especially when I was younger. When I'd moved out and I was living on my own and there was no one to… make me stop. That… got out of hand rather quickly."

"But why? What made you think you had to…?"

"It's not because I'm  _shallow,_  if that's what you're thinking." Sherlock scowled, finally looking up from his cup. "I wouldn't be bothered by something so superficial and silly as the appearance of my transport. It's just that I… needed more control. And I thought that if I could control every little thing about myself, then I'd be better able to handle things. But… once I'd started it was… harder than I'd imagined it would be to stop. So like I said, there are times when I'm stronger than it is, and other times… when I'm not."

John just stood there staring at him across the table. The atmosphere in the flat suddenly felt heavy and thick, and so quiet you could probably have heard a pin drop downstairs.

_This was exactly what he hadn't wanted to hear._

_But also what he had._

An acknowledgement of everything he'd worried about for the last 31 weeks, and an explanation that made his mouth dry and his eyes wet, though he tried to wipe it away discreetly.

So maybe the almighty consulting detective really wasn't so indestructible after all.

_He didn't control everything._

_Some things still controlled him._

"Why didn't you tell me?" John's own voice sounded foreign to him somehow, and he swallowed. "If you knew all about it…"

"I had hoped it wouldn't come back. Or at least, not during this period of my life. I didn't want to have to deal with all this. It's irritating, to say the least."

"Good god…" John pulled out a chair and let himself fall into it, leaning his head back. " _Jesus…_ "

"No need to be so openly optimistic about it."

John leaned his elbows on the table and pressed his fingertips to his temples. "I just didn't think I'd ever hear you say something like that. I never thought you'd… have a problem like this."

"The world is full of problems, John. I would have thought you'd be used to it by now."

"Sherlock," He looked up at him. " _Shut up._ "

"Hmm?"

" _Stop being so god-damn casual about this_. This isn't something you joke about. You could _die_  if you don't get help. If you don't get over this…"

"You don't think I've  _tried?_ " Sherlock glared at him over his teacup. "I've had nearly twenty-five years of going back and forth with this, and  _you don't think I've tried?_ "

"Well, no, I just… meant… twenty-five years?"

The detective declined him an answer, choosing instead to take a deliberate sip of his tea.

He wasn't going to repeat what he'd  _just_  said.

" _God…_ " John put his face in his palm and tried to just remember to breathe.

This was all just a little too much, a little too fast.

Fast, because 31 weeks had gone by like a split-second.

And now time had slowed to a crawl.

A hateful, aching, evil crawl.


	9. Could he really see?

"Oh? And how about in this apple, then?" John held up the fruit for Sherlock's inspection, feeling both disheartened and sickly curious about just how well versed his friend really was in calorie amounts.

Sherlock cast a quick glance at it, unwillingly distracted from the telly. "81, most likely. The other one is at least 107."

"What about that sandwich you won't eat? Hm?"

"Mm... 234.5."

John opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped.

_Awfully precise._

_And probably bloody accurate, too._

The man was like a walking calculator. A supercomputer.

_A damaged human being._

_Disorders must do that to people._

"Come on. You've been looking more tired lately. You can manage  _something,_  right? Even if..."

Sherlock didn't bother looking at him. "Oh _please,_  that stupid sandwich is higher than my whole day's limit, sometimes. Don't try to push."

John just stood there, apple in hand, not quite sure what to do or say. Apparently now that everything was out in the open Sherlock didn't see any reason not to say things like that out loud-as if they were normal thoughts to have...

_John's doctor sensibilities were coming back to life..._

"Sherlock. You know that's less than  _one eighth_ of what you're supposed to be having daily, right? It's a wonder you aren't fainting every other minute, never-mind dying. Please... I know you've got...  _control issues,_  but we've got to work on this. I won't stand by and watch you kill yourself slowly."

"I didn't say all days were like that. Pay attention. Sometimes it's as high as 600. And I'm not killing myself, don't be ridiculous."

"That's hardly any better, still less than a third of what you should be getting. You say it like it's a lot, but Sherlock, I'm telling you as a doctor and as an unbiased person,  _it's not._  You're starving. So yeah, I'd say you are pretty much killing yourself." John swallowed the stubborn lump in his throat and tried to go back to putting away the groceries.

Sherlock sat quietly, not looking at him but not really watching the telly either.

_Thinking._

He was wrapped up in his coat and scarf, curled up with his shoes on the chair. It made it harder for John to tell if he'd lost any more weight since their 'little talk,' and the not knowing was making him anxious, because that anxiety had him convinced that Sherlock probably had.

_And that was scary._

Scary because Sherlock was already thin.

And that should be enough, right?

But apparently it wasn't.

What  _would_  be enough?

Jutting bones at every angle...?

Being too weak to walk at all...?

Hospitalisation...?

_Death?_

John could only pray that wasn't on the agenda. But that appeared to be a lost cause, looking at the evidence.

Surely enough was enough, when it came to control, right? Surely Sherlock could see that he was damaging his transport, and, even though it was such an ingrained behaviour, at least make an effort to mend his ways?

But it was like he...

_Oh._

_Was it like that?_

John looked over at him, taking in the curly hair, striking eyes, which were directed away from him, and tried to imagine the mind behind them. As much of a genius as he was, could he really see himself for what he really looked like? It seemed like a silly question to ask, but John's curiosity and worry were rising.

If he couldn't, that might explain some of his unimpeded relentlessness in exerting control over himself.

_Surely if he could truly see what he was doing to himself..._


	10. As sharp as my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this story is somewhat of a self-reflection.

John stood in the washroom doorway, looking down at the lowly scale nestled on the floor beside the shower, and tried to imagine.

He tried to picture the kind of importance this simple appliance must hold for Sherlock...

The kind of power it must hold over him. He tried to imagine the trepidation before a weigh-in, if there was any; was it difficult? Did Sherlock think about it much?

_He must..._

John had thought himself sneaky, checking to see exactly where the scale was sitting, so that he could see later if it had moved and would be able to tell if his flatmate had been weighing himself-but either he hadn't, or Sherlock was just very good at putting it back just so.

Either could be true. But numbers were important for people like him, right? So he'd want to know... Wouldn't he?

John shook his head and turned from the door. He'd just had an uncomfortable mental image of the consulting detective, flat-out distraught on the scale, jaw set, wordlessly mumbling  _'no, no, no...'_

As unemotional as he usually seemed to be, that was normally the psychological root of this kind of problem.

_Emotions._

Wasn't it?

So surely it would draw some of those to the surface, regardless of whether it was in front of John or only in private.

_It had to._

And that was a disconcerting thought. To imagine the kind of things this 'control disorder' was probably making him feel, and yet to not see any of it.

Meaning...

 _...what,_  exactly? That he was immune to feelings?  _No._

That John just never noticed?  _Surely not..._

That Sherlock hid them incredibly well?  _That was most likely._

Or so John hoped. Because the other option meant that he himself had not been paying enough attention.

And that would mean it was somehow his fault.

A footfall on the wood floor caught his attention, and he looked up. Sherlock was giving him a funny look, brows arched.

"What?" John shook himself, blocking out the memory of that strange mental image and trying to present himself as casual.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm just standing here; is there something wrong with that?"

"You've been 'just standing here' for over fifteen minutes." Sherlock knew John was avoiding the point, and it seemed the sense that there was truth to be hunted out only encouraged him to use any leverage he could find to weasel his way past John's defences. The detective was just like that. If he knew he had the upper hand, he wasn't going to let go. "You're thinking about something. ...either a girlfriend or me, but I really don't see why you'd be staring at the toilet while you think of your girlfriend. Or me, really."

" _I'm not staring at the toilet, you git._ " John waved a hand, shaking his head, and brushed past the taller man to walk out into the living room. "And don't flatter yourself, I could have been thinking about anything."

"So... that's a yes?"

"Well, I'm thinking about my girlfriend now. See what you've done?" John shrugged and settled into his chair, looking up to catch Sherlock casting an uneasy glance behind him, then another-and wondered if his mind were perhaps fixed on that battered black scale.

_It would make sense._

"Sherlock." John waited until the detective had turned to look at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, of course I'm okay. I'm always okay.  _Why?_ "

"I'm asking because I'm concerned. How have you been doing lately... eating-wise?"

_John knew how he'd been doing._

Barely a crumb. Nothing from Saturday 'til Tuesday, and even then it was only marginal. Carefully calculated, and light.

Not enough to sustain a six foot adult man, especially after days of complete fasting.

"Fine."

John frowned. "I don't believe that."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes, moving out of the hall and into the living room, where he went to glance out the window at the undulating, charcoal-grey storm clouds outside. "You should."

"Why should I? I'm not stupid, and I'm not blind either. I can see it's getting worse. I'm not in the dark, Sherlock."

"...If you know the answer to something, don't ask. It's bad form." Sherlock didn't turn away from the window as he spoke.

"I just... I wanted your take on it. I wanted to see if you realised how bad it is."

"It's not that bad."

John swallowed. "You're scaring me now."

Slowly, Sherlock turned to glance at him, his expression hard to read. "I... I've just been... especially motivated lately. To prove I  _can_  do it. Because eating is for the weak, John.  _And I am not weak._ "

John felt something twinge in his chest.

_Something like fear._

_Something like revulsion._

_Something like worry._

"...Where did you get that idea?"

Sherlock shrugged and turned back to the glass, ignoring John's tightened jaw and furrowed brow.

_Okay._

_Sherlock was sick._

_Very, **very**  sick._

_And something had to happen._

"Sherlock. What are you trying to do?"

"What do you mean?"

John paused, and tried again. "What is it you're trying to accomplish by doing this? What do you want?"

" _What do I want?_ " Sherlock glanced at him in the reflection on the glass, staring him down. " _I want my bones to be as sharp as my mind._ "

John tried to meet his reflected gaze, but it was too intense.

The determination in them scared him.

_Too real._

_Too wrong._

_Too dangerous._


	11. About time

It was about time the elder Holmes paid a visit to his little brother.

 _About time_  he stepped in and showed some compassion for the plight of his own blood kin.

**_About fucking time._ **

Mycroft had been waiting upstairs when they got home; before John was even aware of this fact Sherlock had begun cussing under his breath, as if he possessed some sort of sixth sense for the presence of his 'enemy.'

"Why  _now?!_  -always doing this- _always-_ " Sherlock scowled, quickly fiddling with the door knocker, turning it, before swinging the door open and climbing the steps amidst a seething cloud of irritation. John hesitated, watching him go.

Sherlock hadn't eaten today.

He hadn't been able to make him. But it wasn't for lack of trying.  
John was always trying.

By the time he reached the top step the air in the flat was already crackling with tension. Mycroft had stood up from where he'd been lounging in John's armchair, and had turned to face Sherlock, whose ramrod posture and gritted teeth communicated even more than his words.

"Out. I didn't ask you to be here."

Mycroft sighed. "You never do, brother mine... But I'm afraid this time it's necessary."

Even the back of John's neck prickled at the obvious feeling in the room: the suffocating, silent battle of the wills beneath the terse words and accusations.

Sherlock's eyes sparked with something that looked to John like absolute hatred. " _Don't do that now._  I don't want it anymore. I don't need it.  _Get out._ "

"...I... realise you might hold some sort of grudge against me, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here now because you need an intervention."

"No, that's  _EXACTLY_  why you're here! You think you feel guilty, and this is the only way you can see to ease it. You just want to be able to sleep at night. Which is entirely  _not my problem._ "

John's brow furrowed as he took a step toward Sherlock. One small step, a repositioning. What felt like a safer distance.

"Mycroft, what is he talking about?" John hadn't meant it to come out sounding accusing.

_It just had._

The elder Holmes shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, calculating eyes moving between the two of them. Before he could speak Sherlock had rolled his eyes and snapped coldly, "Don't answer that."

"Sherlock..."

Mycroft turned his sharp gaze back to his younger brother, and spoke sternly. "Don't attempt to make this into a childish feud, brother mine. It's already bad enough as it is. You're very sick."

"Oh  _please... As if I don't know that already!_ "

"And you know what that does to mummy."

A split-second of silence, in which Sherlock's emotions showed very clearly on his face.  
"Don't you  _dare..._  It was  _your_  fault she was upset!"

"Only because I told her. It was the logical first step toward your recovery. Your decisions were still the cause of her pain, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then gritted his teeth, stepping closer to Mycroft threateningly. " _Don't talk about 'decisions' to me._  You and I both know-"

"Your disorder, then. Your  _illness._  Don't be smart-you know precisely what I meant."

Sherlock paused, glaring at him. " _Oh,_  that brings me back..." He took on a mocking tone. "' _Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one!'_ "

"I  _am_  the smart one."


	12. Fault

_"'Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one!'"_

_"I **am**  the smart one."_

"I used to think I was an idiot." Sherlock's anger was cold now, frigid like an arctic glacier set to crack and splinter at any moment.

Mycroft sighed. " _Both of us_  thought you were an idiot, Sherlock."

John's eyes went from one Holmes to the other, brow furrowed in disbelief. "Okay... Come on... There's no way-" A look from Mycroft stopped him mid-sentence, and he raised his eyebrows.

_Really...?_

"Sherlock." Mycroft had drawn himself up to his full height, still trying to look demure in the face of rage. "You  _are_  ill again. Be well aware that this will be terminal, if you continue to do nothing about it. Should you decide to continue destroying your body, I will not hesitate to take matters into my own hands. ...You know the drill, little brother."

John half-expected Sherlock to strike his brother, the way he was looking at him-but instead he remained utterly silent. And somehow that was the most hateful thing he could have said.

* * *

"...Sherlock?"

John felt as if he were breaking some unspoken rule by being the first to say something. It had been hours since Mycroft had left, but the silence had remained, lingering there like a heavy layer of dust that covered everything in the flat and weighed down on them with some deeper meaning that everybody but John seemed to be privy to.

The consulting detective didn't answer.

John took a deep, dusty breath and tried again. " _Sherlock._  Can we talk?"

At long last the man stirred, as if finally moving after a century of stillness and silence. He lifted doleful eyes to glance over John, waiting.

"Uh..." John suddenly realised he wasn't quite sure what he'd been going to say. "Well... I... What happened? Between you two? You...  _He_... Made it sound like all this was-sort of-because of... Well, because of something he did, maybe. I mean-"

"You're rambling." Sherlock's voice was low, but it sounded more tired than malicious. He sat up slowly, taking his time.

_Perhaps to avoid a dizzy spell._

"So..."

"Yes. Yes, alright? Is that enough for you? It's my brother's fault. Is that what you'd like to hear?"

"I..." John paused, concerned. "No, but...  _If it's true...?_ "

Sherlock huffed moodily, considering. "In a way... Yes."

John was quiet for a moment, just trying to figure out what on earth to say. Finally he came up with the one question that kept repeating itself in his mind.

"How...?"

"How is it his fault? You really want to know? I doubt you do. It's not interesting-you won't gain anything from hearing it."

"Sherlock... That's not the point."

"Isn't it?"

John took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head. "No... not this time. I just want to know what happened. I know he's not exactly a saint, but I can't imagine Mycroft doing anything  _that_  horrible on purpose..."

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"Yeah? Let me be the judge of that."

Sherlock sat back, regarding him with a critical gaze. At long last he sighed in resignation, steepling his fingers and resting them against his lips, as he often did in moments of deep thought.

"...He had no idea that the effects would manifest themselves in such a way. We were young-very young, mind you. Enough that I had not yet recognised that my brother was not as important as he seemed at the time. Silly of me, but..." He stopped and shook his head, banishing the thought. "At that point, him being the older brother, he was determined to instil in me the virtues of self-control. Rigid control. I was already heading in that direction, but he intended to help me along. Which worked out rather well, except for  _this_  one little problem... Like I told you before, the way this...  _illness_  started was because of an attempt on my part to gain even better control. Obviously, you can see how wonderfully that turned out."

"But... you said it started early. Why didn't anybody say anything? I mean, surely Mycroft could tell. Both of you-you... know stuff about people."

Sherlock just shrugged. "He knew. He just... decided to leave me to it. At least, until it got bad enough that our parents realised. By that time I had to be placed in inpatient care in hospital. I hated that place..."

John pressed his lips together, not sure what to say but feeling as though there should be  _something._  Something reassuring. Helpful.

But there was nothing.

No magic words to be said that would wash away all the mistakes and the hate and the hurt, and no simple, one-dose cure for that monster in the mind.

"Sherlock..."

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry..."


End file.
